


The Sea is Calm Tonight

by Fuoco



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Insecurity, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Scars, into relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 08:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7215085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuoco/pseuds/Fuoco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke reaches out a hand that finds the side of his face - a ropy scar his hair always hid, smooth lyrium rock on in his forehead, ticklingly long eyelashes and the high corner of a sideways smile.</p>
<p>In the morning it all disappears under a mess of hair and a hungover scowl-</p>
<p>-The fluttering in Hawke’s heart, however, persists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sea is Calm Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> For prompt here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15999.html?thread=62237311

Hawke feels a punch to the lungs a moment after a mercenary gets his ripped out. The strange glowing subsides, and the midst of it was an elf.

And 'elf' isn't the fastest thought to cross Hawke’s mind. The fastest thing was consideration for how quickly he could boil a fire spell because the man looked mean. He looked like he could rip a man’s organs out before the the idea became literal. Scars on top of older scars all under blood and dirt and strange, glittering, broken-glass eyes and... rocks. In his skin. He categorized it next to Flemeth’s firey dragon transformation in the list of strangest things he’d ever seen. And he was raised with mages.

“I apologize,” and his voice is like a man just done screaming but honestly, the apologizing is the bigger surprise.

Hawke agrees to help some more before he really thinks about it. The path of bodies lining the way up the stairs doesn’t change his mind one bit. He wants to take Fenris out for a drink, if anything.

\---

“Not today, Hawke.”

Hawke doesn’t want to push. He’d always appreciated how direct Fenris could be. But there was only so many months he could leave the mercenary to sit in his dusty corpse-filled mansion, presumably alone, and not worry a little bit. An invitation to help kill things was always quickly accepted but Maker forbid they get drinks after.

Fortunately nearly half a year of acquaintanceship meant Hawke had a bit of an idea of what put in a good mood. It was a more romantic list when put together than would have guessed - moonless nights and the water off the storm coast were up there with dead slavers and good wine.

The stars eventually align themselves: a dozen slavers hiding in the Caves of the storm coast that die quickly. A dark, moonless sky greeting them when they finally finish cutting throats and freeing elves. Something close to a smile stretched the scars on Fenris’ face when they pop open a crate by the exit filled with wine old enough to have been bottled by Hawke’s great-grandmother.

Hawke cant quite see Fenris - besides the limited glow of the lyrium in his skin that highlighted scars and his bottom lip on the bottleneck.

Despite the darkness there’s a lightness to his chuckle when Hawke catches the sound over the roar of the waves. It makes him tipsier than the actual drink, and the hands that steady him are ripped and rough as sandstone where they aren’t strapped with leather or marble-smooth with veins of lyrium. Hawke reaches out a hand that finds the side of his face - a ropy scar his hair always hid, smooth lyrium rock on in his forehead, ticklingly long eyelashes and the high corner of a sideways smile.

In the morning it all disappears under a mess of hair and a hungover scowl-

-The fluttering in Hawke’s heart, however, persists.

\---  
Hawke knew he could be a little naiive. The deaths in his family - the blight - weren’t enough to beat it out of him. But he wanted to slap himself.

If he was going to rationalize it, maybe he’d remember he’d had absolutely no frame of reference for the things that happened to Fenris in his stories. Nor did it help that Fenris could sound so matter-of-fact when it came to describing beatings or his lyrium tattoos.

But in the end they wouldn’t be anything more than just excuses and wouldn’t make the long, deep, crisscrossing gouges, the tight scars, the shiny burned skin - all the injury the warrior usually covered any less real. Nor would any amount of tears and soft touches. So he forced out his held breath when Fenris looked back at him - whatever lust had driven him to Hawke’s bedroom had started to give way into something vulnerable - and reached out. A much softer hold than it would have been over the armor, he cant help it, he hopes Fenris isn’t annoyed.

“You’re still...?” There was as much surprise in his damaged voice as their was a challenge. His cute, crooked teeth run over his deeply scarred lower lip and the image of what was done with a knife to cause such a cut finally gives way to the notion that Fenris had survived it.

“Very,” and Hawke finds that he means it.

Because Maker be damned if that resilience wasn’t the most attractive quality possible.

**Author's Note:**

> This finally passed the amount of time I find acceptable to keep prompt-fills to myself before I make myself share it. Honestly such an interesting prompt. Thank you for reading :)


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